Shut Down
by DrowningComic
Summary: Trunks returns to his own timeline to defeat the androids, when an unexpected glitch throws him into circumstances he could never have prepared for. (dub-con, 17xT)
1. Chapter 1

Trunks had never felt such an urgent need to scrape out his insides lest he throw them up.

None of this was supposed to happen. How _could_ it have happened? The very first cry that had crawled and clawed it's way from the now lifeless body in his arms sat heavy in his stomach, and the more he tried to block the ghost of that sound from his mind, the more it manifested in his ears. He hadn't even known that the androids could cry. And now, against all reason, against all the plans and fantasies of what he would do if he ever managed to beat the creatures of death that had plagued his world for as long as he could remember, he was blasting through the air faster than he ever had, one of the monsters cradled tightly in his grasp.

Before the android had done so much as begun to spring forward on his feet, Trunks hit the button of the remote. After weeks of studying the blueprints he'd brought back, after helping his mother between sleepless and hungry nights in building the shut-off mechanism that she insisted was safer to use despite how much stronger he'd gotten, he had what would be the triumph of his world in the pocket of his jacket. What exactly they'd done wrong to get the half-baked result was anyone's guess, but instead of simply falling limp as a corpse, 17 stumbled in his attempted take-off. The look of shock on his face slowly turned to an agony and grief Trunks had only ever before associated with his own reflection the days following his teacher's murder. But instead of molding into determined anger, the expression went further into panic. Even without _ki_ to sense, Trunks could see 17 trying to fly. And before he could even begin to wonder what went wrong in his plans, how the android was able to move, the sound of bone smacking hard into the wall that, just a moment before, had been intended as a springboard resonated through the mid-morning air.

"No," 17 had said as he began hitting harder, harder, harder. Such a soft-spoken, simple word, and yet the more it came from him, the more frightening it sounded. The crack of quickly bruising, bleeding knuckles made Trunks's body move of its own protective accord, but the feral, guttural wail of terrified fury was what made his brain catch up.

Trunks remembered how, the moment he'd touched the other in an attempt to save his hand, the free arm had flown at him in a failed attempt at a punch. The soft, painless "thud" it made on Trunks's chest surprised them both in a very final, stomach-turning moment of clarity, and it was at that instant 17 had crumbled before the demi-Saiyan's eyes.

Trunks was no stranger to screams of pain, but never had one chilled him so completely, shaken him so violently. Even as he touched down at the door of his ruined home, the fresh memory of it made his knees go numb, his hands cold. Something in it drove him to this illogical act of helping the monster he'd set out to kill in the first place. It would be so easy, even now, to just incinerate him, to remove half of the Earth's violent cancer in one swift blow. But somehow, that felt wrong. Sounded wrong. Everything about it, no matter what way he fought to justify the situation in his head, was so warped and ugly. His head spun. He felt so ill, so filthy and conflicted. Even as his mother yelled at him, demanded explanations, for a sign that he hadn't completely lost it, the best he could do was fight through a teary plea for help. All that made sense was damage had been done in ways he wasn't aware were possible. And if they weren't fixed soon, he was certain that the only remaining truth was swift and certain catastrophe.

Trunks was vaguely aware of the realization that he'd never seen either of the androids bleed before as he watched his mother distrustfully bandage the damaged hand on their impromptu patient; certainly not self-inflicted, absolutely not because of something as easily breakable as a brick wall. The thought was fleeting however, his mind wandering in an almost drunken stupor. He still couldn't wrap his mind around what had just happened. There was absolutely nothing to stop him from doing the job he'd inherited at 14. Why didn't—_couldn't_—he just break the weakened creature?

Broken, he realized, was exactly the word, the reason. He had already broken his prey.

A new wave of acid roiled in his stomach, making the exaction of his circumstances all the more painful. Despite the reality of his world, the only way he could see what he had done was as a crime mirroring their own. Why couldn't he justify this? He wanted so badly to believe this was barely a taste of the rotting medicine they deserved, but every time, it fell back in his gut and drove him nearly mad with horrified guilt. A quick painless death was the only virtuous way to end the nightmare, despite his desire to throw the hurt back in their faces, and now he knew all too clearly what ignoring that ultimatum entailed.

Trunks reacted almost mechanically when Bulma finished with 17's hand, bringing the blood-soiled wipes and left over tape to their place in the garbage. He woke from his daze only to stare back helplessly at his mother when the android burst into a fresh onslaught of shuddering sobs on the table. For the rest of the long day and well into the night, Trunks stayed guard at the door to the workroom, with only the pain-wracked cries of his captive to keep him company.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a very long time since 17 had cried.

He stared up at the opening in the ceiling from where he sat in a room that reminded him a little too much of Gero's lab. It was smaller, homier, but smelled of the familiar combination of rubbing alcohol and motor oil that he'd come to associate with sensations of pain and sickness. The tendons in his right hand ached and throbbed with his pulse underneath a layer of gauze and surgical tape. In the grand scheme of things, the wound was not very big. But the tears had come with it, even if not strictly because of it. His throat was raw—he'd abandoned his scarf. His head ached—it rested on the back of the alcove he sat in. Even his gun, which could very easily solve the problem of him being trapped and able to do nothing, stayed untouched in its holster. He felt so tired, more than he'd felt in almost two decades, and the energy required to lift the weapon and pull the trigger into his or the Boy's mouth seemed an awfully large amount to muster.

The dawn had barely begun when the Boy stirred outside the door. 17 watched the grey sky begin to glow orange and red at the edge of the broken ceiling as the other tentatively stepped into the room. Why didn't he just get it over with? Surely, a killing blow was what he originally intended. He didn't seem the type to enjoy torturing another.

It was a painfully long, silent moment that passed before the Boy warily knelt beside 17. Despite the hard, searching stare he gave, the gesture wasn't acknowledged by much more than his own resigned sigh. Strange, _cruel_, the look of worry that he dared to wear on his face. The android wanted none of it. It wasn't fair. He had nothing, _nothing _left. Why at every turn did he seem destined for being left to the whims of others, never in control, always fighting his way to the surface just to breathe, just to know that he could still take that gasp of air at his own need. He wanted to strangle his captor, hated that he was a prisoner to begin with, and by his own weakness. But when he tried to lash out, tried to wrap his hands around the surprisingly thin neck to his side, he faltered, falling into stronger arms that held his attacks at bay with no apparent effort.

He hated himself more than he knew was possible. In the end, he was just as helpless and weak and pathetic as had been the case in any other given point of his life. Even this curse, this horrible, disgusting fate that Gero's experiment had doomed him to—even that had been stolen from him. He was left powerless and trapped in his own skin. He couldn't even manage to make himself much more than a pitiable animal to the one person that had survived his anger. For the hundredth time, he wasn't even worth enough to earn the mercy of death.

Crying, it seemed, was all he could do any more.

Even tears cost him effort and before long, he was drained; an exhausted, whimpering heap in the Boy's terrified embrace. They must have stayed like that for hours, judging by the changing light of the sun filtering through above them. When he finally had the strength to speak, the voice that came out was a strained rasp,

"Why won't you kill me?"

Silence. It angered him, made him want to tear everything apart, to shake the body he was leaning into until it answered him. Instead, he dropped his voice to barely a whisper.

"God damn it, just do it already! After all this time, you finally have me where you want me. Why won't you just _kill me?!_"

The only sign he got that the other was listening was the sudden tensing in his posture. Just the same, a reply came a minute later, slow and careful, not quite angry, though neither was it calm,

"You aren't a danger anymore."

17 almost choked at that. He had to force the despair down, letting himself stay on the floor when the Boy got up and walked out. That even after all he'd done, after the anger and battles and damage he'd inflicted, he wasn't even worthy of the other's vengeance without his strength—it pooled in his chest like thick poison. Even to the last, he meant nothing. If even his sworn enemy would not see him to his death, then he'd lost what he suspected he never really had in the first place. He would have to do it himself, or live out the remainder of his eternity more fragile and invisible than he'd ever been.


	3. Chapter 3

For a week, Trunks guarded the door to his mother's lab.

Vigilance had dwindled from constantly staying right outside in the hall to checking in every few hours, but there it was. The young man grew more anxious with every passing day, knowing there was still a loose end with the potential to unravel everything unless he went looking for her. Despite 17's current lack of fighting power, there was still something terrifying in the atmosphere of the open room, and trusting him alone with Bulma was simply not an option. So Trunks remained conflicted, practically gluing himself to a small radio for any news of 18's potential warpath, just to pretend to himself that he was still in control.

"You have to feed yourself, you know."

Trunks looked up from where he sat to see his mother smiling at him knowingly. He absently fiddled with the handle of the small electronic at his side not really listening to the music that currently crackled through its speakers.

"I know, but I just…I can't leave right now." He turned his gaze downward, trying to avoid the glare he was certain he'd get. Instead, he heard a heavy sigh, and felt her eyes move from the top of his head to the doorway.

"Trunks, he hasn't moved in four hours. I know you're worried, and it's not that you shouldn't be but…"

Another sigh. Glancing up, the young man saw her staring hard past him into the lab. Blue eyes flicked back down to his face, features softening around them.

"If things have been fine so far, they will stay fine for one meal. Come on, I've already got it on the table."

Still wary, but feeling somehow relieved, Trunks picked up the radio and traveled with his mother back up into the small dining room of the house. He even managed to crack a smile as they talked over steamed rice and some grilled fish. He'd nearly forgotten entirely about the music playing at his side on the table, when just as they started clearing the dishes, music turned to a frantic news anchor filtering through the static,

"_After almost a week of calm, I am now reporting live from the east district of Lemon City where survivors are fleeing for their lives from—"_

Trunks barely heard the shouted "be careful!" at his back before he rushed from the kitchen, grabbing his sword and the remote on the way out. He would have to trust that his home and mother would be in one piece at his return.

This time, Trunks steeled himself to the possibility of another inexplicable emotional breakdown. He didn't act fast enough at first, and had to fight for a while before having a chance to grab for the off switch and hit it within range.

To his surprised horror, 18 fell totally limp in a crumpled pile at his feet. Not trusting that he wouldn't be approached by someone if he stayed standing there, he picked her up and took to the sky, entirely unsure of his destination. He cursed as clouds gathered and it began to storm, forcing him to land a little ways outside town where it started becoming trees and clusters of stonerock. Trunks happened upon a small cave, and though it wasn't ideal, propped up the lifeless body in his arms against its inner wall. Tempting as it was to leave her there and forget about it, something kept him by the cyborg's side until the rain passed. For the hour and a half that he sat, the sounds of water dripping at the mouth of the tiny space washing over him, he silently argued with himself over his options. Nothing seemed to be a satisfying end, but the least complicated at the moment was to just bring 18 back with him. Expression grim, the demi-Saiyan gathered his charge and started the trip back to Capsule Corp, a pit burning it's way through his stomach as he went.

It had been a few years since Trunks had snuck into his own home. Back then, it was almost always to avoid getting yelled at for "running off to be killed", and would involve trying to patch himself up the best he could before his mother noticed. He tried to push away the memory of Gohan lying face down in the mud as he slipped into one of the top floor windows of Capsule Corp, still holding 18 against his chest.

Though technically now an attic, the gravity room was open and nearly empty, more of a wide, circular flat than a storage space; the perfect place to hide his second impromptu captive. Hands shaking, Trunks lowered her to the floor close to the door he'd come in through, and once he had double checked that she was very much unconscious, bolted out of the room and down the stairs to find Bulma. He found her waiting at the kitchen table, hands knit together tightly around an unfinished mug of coffee that had long since grown cold, radio silent. The moment she heard him step over the threshold into the small room, she stood from her seat,

"Thank god, you're ok! The way you ran out I thought maybe—"

"Mom, I need your help," Trunks interrupted breathlessly, feeling his face beginning to betray his distress. Bulma's eyes widened slightly with horror.

"…It happened again?"

"No. The remote worked this time. That's the problem."

The boy stumbled through an explanation of what had happened, trying not to scream or collapse from the frenzy of thoughts blurring in his mind. Once he had finished, he slumped helplessly into one of the chairs, burying his face in his arms on the table.

"What do I do…I just don't even know what to _do_ anymore."

"Oh, sweetheart," Bulma sighed, taking the seat next to her son. She put what she hoped was a reassuring hand to his shoulder, rubbing it gently.

"I just wish…I wish Gohan were here," Trunks's muffled voice came broken and small from where he was slouched over. The sting of tears came to Bulma's eyes, and fighting them back with a deep breath, she moved closer to give a hug.

"I know."


	4. Chapter 4

Trunks didn't understand why, but there was something strangely serene about how still 17 was sitting in the corner of the basement. If he didn't know better, it was almost like having a life-sized doll with an expression on the sadder side of neutral that did nothing but stare blindly into the distance. He wished that it were so easy, that he could just leave the monster there to collect dust and silently merge with the room until he was nothing more than a particularly bad memory. But if he was going to be able to help his mother create the suspension case necessary to keeping 18 until he could figure out exactly what to do with her—or her counterpart for that matter—he had to have the lab free. He prepared himself for the very real possibility of the raven-haired cyborg lashing out at him upon being disturbed, and stepped across the cement floor towards his enemy.

If he cared about being moved, 17 hardly showed it. It was unnerving how empty his pale eyes seemed, not really seeing as he stared straight ahead while being shuffled into the house. He only seemed to wake up a little at the frustrated sigh made by his new keeper, and even then, his face hardly changed expression.

"We need the lab, and you'd be in the way." Trunks stated tersely, not really knowing why he suddenly felt the need to explain himself.

"For now, you're going to be in here."

They had reached the end of a long hall in front of what seemed to be a guest space, the android taking note of the sparse furniture. He scoffed flatly,

"Lucky me. My own room."

17 felt a tiny surge of triumph at the way the boy bristled and walked away at that. Once he was sure he was alone, he took the time to really take in his surroundings.

Given how battered the outside of the building was, he found himself vaguely impressed at how intact the room seemed. Even so, it truly was bare; with just a small desk that appeared to double as a nightstand, a bed, and a dresser against the opposite wall. A few pairs of shoes sat by the dresser, though they didn't look particularly well worn, and a small pile of laundry lay next to the shoes in front of another door he assumed was a closet of some sort. Except for a few splashes of color provided by the carpet and dirty clothes, the room seemed almost intentionally boring, making it hard for 17 to quell the curiosity starting to take over the numbness of the past week. Who would ever want to live in a place so empty of personality? Besides, there was no doubt in his mind that the Boy hated him with every ounce of his being, so why would he give him the space?

Taking quiet, tentative steps over to the dresser, he tested the pull of one of the drawers. Inside, he found mostly shirts and a few pairs of shorts. The next three drawers seemed equally disorganized, though neatly packed, an assortment of pants, socks, more shirts…

The android paused, recognition settling in his chest. These were the Boy's clothes. This was _his_ room.

Under any other circumstances, 17 might have laughed. For the moment, he was just trying to allow it all to sink in. He looked back at the closed door by the dresser, knowing that this violation of privacy was probably not the cleverest of plans given his current disadvantage in strength. Still, he stood, reaching a hand to the knob.

To his surprise, the 'closet' was actually a personal bathroom, and a fairly roomy one at that. It, too, was bland and mostly empty, with only a pair of towels, wash bin, and some soap and shampoo by the open shower. Strange, he thought, how the scent of it was so familiar though the only time he'd been close enough to smell the Boy, he'd been too busy smearing him in the dirt. Glancing back over his shoulder at the half open drawers, he wrinkled his nose at the thought of having to wear that smell. But now faced with imprisonment for a hereto-uncertain amount of time, he realized how badly he wanted a shower, and his own clothes were in no condition to be put on after the fact.

Selecting a white shirt with blue sleeves and a plain pair of shorts from the dresser, 17 took the stolen garments to the bathroom and slipped the lock into place.

_**A/N:** hallo, and thank you for taking the time to read my story ;w;9 i hope you're enjoying it so far. the plan at the moment is to post a new chapter every couple weeks, maybe three weeks if something comes up or i get stuck on a part of the story, but i encourage you to let me know what you think~ it's always a pleasure to see what people have to say about my drabbles/handling of the characters._

_have a wonderful day, my Lovlies, and i'll be back in a few weeks _

_3 DC_


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